


are you fire, are you fury / are you sacred, are you beautiful

by memorysdaughter



Series: got your heart in a headlock [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Gardens & Gardening, Hurt/Comfort, Inanimate Objects, Languages, Memories, Physical Therapy, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorysdaughter/pseuds/memorysdaughter
Summary: Yasha tries to recover.Beau has a visitor.Jester finds a voice.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Yasha/Zuala (Critical Role)
Series: got your heart in a headlock [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472777
Comments: 19
Kudos: 155





	are you fire, are you fury / are you sacred, are you beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> I love this AU and so I think I'll just keep writing more. I'm always flattered by reviews and kudos, but honestly, this one is just my comfort place. I hope you'll enjoy it too.
> 
> You may notice that this one features a lot of hugging and physical comforting - I've been socially-distanced/isolated for almost an entire month (I live alone; our schools are closed so I'm not working full-time or seeing freelance clients; my part-time job is work-from-home) and while I'm not the touchy-feely type, I would straight up maim for a hug right now.
> 
> Title is from "What Do I Know of Holy" by Addison Road, which despite being religious (unlike myself), is still one of my favorite songs.

_translate_

“Okay, again,” Keg says.

_“Xa… jzirbol…”_

“God, your accent is like a French horn fucking a boom box.”

_“... kz-xzyan.”_ Beau sits up and looks at Keg.

“I mean… those were words,” Keg offers.

“I’ve been practicing!” Beau protests.

“With stones in your mouth?”

“It’s not my fault Xhorhassian has too many consonants and not enough fun!” Beau flops back on the mat behind her.

She and Keg work on Xhorhassian while they’re working out. First a round of sit-ups, then grammar and conjugation. More sit-ups, then nouns and verbs. Push-ups, pull-ups, vocabulary all afternoon. Beau’s not sure she’s getting any better with her Xhorhassian, but she’s definitely feeling the burn in her core. And she likes Keg, so it’s mostly a pretty good time. And it takes her mind off how Yasha’s doing at physical therapy.

Her phone buzzes. Beau sighs and sits back up. “Time to get back to the real world, I guess.”

She picks it up and her stomach drops out of her body. The dojo seems to spin around her.

“Beau?” Keg’s voice sounds very far away.

Beau tries to speak, but her words are caught in her throat. She tries to break her gaze from the message on her phone’s screen and finds she can’t lift her head.

“Beau.” Hands come down on her shoulders. 

“Oh, _yzal,”_ Beau gets out, and it’s as though speaking the Xhorhassian word for “shit” breaks the spell, because she drops her phone to the mat.

“What?” Keg asks.

“Um, apparently… my father’s coming to visit,” Beau says.

“I’m guessing that’s not good.”

“It’s definitely, _definitely_ not.” Beau lays back on the mat.

“So tell him he can’t come.”

“What?”

“I’m generally not in the habit of letting people I don’t like into my life. If you don’t want to see him, don’t.”

Beau groans. “It’s not like that.”

“I assure you, it almost definitely is.”

“My father is… he’s not the kind of person who understands ‘no.’ He sent me away to boarding school when I was a teenager because I was a mouthy shit and he didn’t want me around… he couldn’t control me, and he didn’t like that. He prefers a more sanitized version of a family - to the point where I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even mention me in the holiday letters he and my mom send out. But my golden child brother, now, I’m sure he gets a whole page.”

“He’s old enough to learn what ‘no’ means, Beau,” Keg says seriously. “If you don’t want him here, he doesn’t have to come.”

“And oh, God, what’s he going to think of _Yasha?”_ Beau’s eyes go wide. “It’s not bad enough that I’m a lesbian, but I’m dating a _Xhorhassian refugee._ And she’s _blind._ And she was _married._ And -”

She sucks in a breath and looks over at Keg, who’s leaning back on the mat.

“Do you love Yasha?” Keg asks.

It’s not what Beau thought she’d be asked, and it takes the wind out of her sails. “What? Of course I do.”

“So why does it matter what your father thinks of her? _He’s_ not dating her.”

Beau thinks about this, staring up at the dojo ceiling. “I just… I’ve always wanted him to be proud of me. To tell me he cares about me. To show me that he respects my life and what I’ve done with it. And… I’ve never had it, but for some reason I keep chasing it.”

“I guess you have to ask yourself _why,”_ Keg says. “If your father showed up this time, and told you he loves you, and apologizes for past hurts, and told you that you’ve done amazingly in your life, and that he would totally bless your relationship with Yasha - would you be fulfilled?”

Beau rolls her head and looks over at Keg.

“It wouldn’t do anything,” Keg says. “You’re waiting for something that isn’t going to happen, and you’re wasting all this energy on pining for it. So stop. If you want to see your father, see him. If you don’t, don’t.”

“I feel like you’re speaking from experience.”

Keg shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. This isn’t about me - I’ve got a therapist I pay to listen to my crazy. But it’s still good advice.”

She rolls to one side and hauls herself up onto the bench at the side of the dojo, reaching for her prosthetics. Beau sits up and watches as Keg starts putting her legs back on. “You’ve had a lot of physical therapy, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” Keg replies.

“Did you like it?”

“I liked being nubbins on the floor or getting around in a wheelchair less,” Keg answers. “Why?”

“Yasha won’t talk about what they do at PT,” Beau says. “I just wonder what it’s like.”

Keg stops, her left leg most of the way back on, and looks over at Beau. “Your girlfriend was beaten within an inch of her life by xenophobic scum, who broke multiple bones, including one of her legs, her collar-bone, her eye sockets, and most of her ribs. My guess is that PT, for her, is not exactly a good time.”

“She just… she doesn’t talk much about things,” Beau says. “She’s better than when she first came home from the hospital, but I think she’s still in pain a lot of the time and I think she’s tired of not being able to do everything for herself.”

“Dependency, once you’ve lived an independent life, is horrible,” Keg says. She goes back to her leg.

“I just feel like there’s more I could be doing. I don’t know _what,_ but there has to be something.”

Keg reaches for her right leg. “Go home and tell her you love her. That’s a good start.”

Beau gets to her feet and stretches out her back. “Keg,” she says, trying to keep her voice light, “do you have somebody waiting at home for you?”

“Depends on if you count dogs as people,” Keg answers easily.

“You’re not really the best at straight answers, are you?”

“I don’t do a lot of things straight,” Keg says, and she looks up, meets Beau’s eyes, and grins.

“All right, all right,” Beau groans. “You’ve got me. No more prying personal questions.”

“Atta girl.”

They walk out together, Beau pulling on her light jacket for the bike ride home. Keg opens the door to her car and looks over at Beau. “Let her know I’m always ready to listen, if she needs someone.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, I have to keep the lines open for my best student.”

“I’m your best student?”

Keg grins. “I was definitely talking about Yasha, but I’m glad you think of yourself so highly.”

Beau stands in the parking lot for a few beats after Keg’s car disappears from sight, listening to the wind in the trees. She thinks of the text message from her father, thinks about the last time she saw him. Thinks about how any contact would turn her life upside down again, and if she’s really ready for something like that so soon after Yasha’s assault.

The wind might be saying many things, but whatever they are, Beau doesn’t understand any of them. She sighs, puts on her bike helmet, and pedals away from the dojo.

* * *

_handhold_

“Yasha? Would it be okay if I came and sat by you?”

Yasha tilts her head, surprised by the new voice in the room. “Dr. Trickfoot?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I do work in this hospital,” the doctor says, her voice coming closer. Then there’s pressure on the bench next to Yasha as the doctor sits down. “Nila was… concerned for you.”

Yasha feels terrible. Nila, her physical therapist, is one of the kindest, gentlest individuals Yasha’s ever met, second maybe to Caduceus, who gave her her tattoo. Yasha never, ever wants to upset Nila, even though physical therapy is terrible and Yasha feels like she’s failing and everything hurts. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t apologize,” Dr. Trickfoot says, and a small hand slips itself into Yasha’s larger one and squeezes. “I know you’re doing your best.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know _you,”_ Dr. Trickfoot points out, “and since I’ve known you, you’ve accomplished a great deal. My guess is that you’re approaching physical therapy with the same attitude as everything else you’ve conquered.”

Yasha puts her head down.

“This might be difficult to hear, but you’ve already been beaten up. Don’t continue to do it to yourself,” Dr. Trickfoot says gently. “Try your best. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”

“I’m… I’m scared,” Yasha says, her voice breaking.

“Of what?”

“Of… of a lot of things. But mostly that I won’t be able to be independent like I was before… all of this.”

It blazes across Yasha’s mind at night - _You’re never going to be the same._ She’s terrified she’ll never walk without a guide again, navigating for her as she holds up her still-healing body. She’s terrified of what might happen if she gets on public transport again, even if it’s her favorite bus driver, Joel, who’s in charge of her route. She can’t fathom going to the sports club by herself to meet up with Keg, to the Storm Lord Center to garden with Grog, to the Braille book depository to change out her reading material. Everything changed within the span of an hour, and the future seems to shrink further and further every time Yasha thinks about it.

“Yasha.” Dr. Trickfoot’s voice is suddenly loud and close. “Yasha, you have to stop.”

Yasha snaps back into her body, abruptly realizing that her hands are twisted around each other, her fingernails digging into the skin of her wrists. She gasps and lets her fingers loosen, yanking her hands apart. Tears flood into her eyes and she pushes down on her knees, letting pain bloom through her broken leg to distract her.

“Will you bring me a first aid kit?” Dr. Trickfoot says quietly to someone.

Yasha keeps her head down and lets herself cry. That has to be some sort of progress, right?

“I’m going to touch your left arm,” Dr. Trickfoot says, and Yasha processes that mere seconds before gentle, light fingers remove her left arm from her knee and begin swabbing it and bandaging it. Dr. Trickfoot lets go and Yasha puts her left hand back on her knee, not pushing down this time. The doctor takes Yasha’s right arm and begins the same process.

Soon Yasha’s hands are both back on her knees, her wrists cleaned and bandaged. Dr. Trickfoot touches her shoulder. “Would you like to be finished for today?”

“I want… I want to get better.”

“Sometimes getting better means taking care of yourself in other ways than physical therapy,” Dr. Trickfoot says. “PT will be here tomorrow.”

Yasha brings her head up.

“Who’s coming to get you today? Beau?”

“No, she had a training session with Keg. Fjord’s coming.”

“Okay. Would you like me to wait with you until he arrives?”

“I mean… I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“I’m finished for the day. I was on my way out when Nila called. So no worries.”

Yasha sits next to Dr. Trickfoot, neither of them speaking, until Fjord comes. Dr. Trickfoot speaks softly to Fjord while Yasha pulls on her jacket, the muscles in her back throbbing with even that effort.

“Hey,” Fjord says, and he touches her arm.

“Hi,” Yasha says.

“You ready?”

Yasha nods, and picks up her shorter walking cane from the floor. She reaches up for Fjord’s arm and hangs on, pulling herself up and getting her balance against his body before putting her cane down to hold her up.

“I’m thinking today might be a good day for cupcakes on the way home,” Fjord says as they make their way to the door. Yasha feels the breeze on her face. It smells like spring. “Thoughts?”

“I do like cupcakes.”

“I know Jester would love if we brought some home for her, too,” Fjord goes on.

Yasha keeps her fingers on his elbow, letting him guide her. “She might have a cupcake problem.”

“Well, if we’re going to have an intervention for her, we might as well give her a good batch as her last round.”

Yasha laughs. It echoes off the roof of the parking garage and bounces back to her, and she doesn’t feel so alone.

* * *

_listen_

Jester knocks on Beau’s bedroom door. “Beau, I have a surprise! I’m coming in!”

“Wait -” Beau throws on a tank top just as Jester bangs the door open. “I just got out of the shower and -”

“Look at this,” Jester demands. She holds her tablet out towards Beau.

“What am I looking at?” Beau looks down at the article Jester’s pulled up.

For the second time that day her stomach does a flip. She looks down into the face of a gorgeous woman, dark-skinned with curly white hair, wearing big headphones and speaking into a microphone. She has the same facial tattoo Yasha does - a single line running from her lower lip to her chin. _DJ Z-Lite connects music-lovers across the province,_ the caption reads.

“I found Yasha’s wife,” Jester says.

“How… how…?”

“I have a program set up to send me alerts about the area where Yasha’s from,” Jester says. “You know, if there’s an article written about it or something. This showed up today while I was at work.”

Beau can immediately see how Yasha fell for Zuala: she’s absolutely stunning. Her eyes are dark and full of laughter; her mouth crinkles upward into smile lines that make beautiful dimples appear in her cheeks. She looks like the kind of woman who never met a stranger, who had a house filled with joy and good smells and lots of little plants, the kind of woman who adored Yasha.

“You can hear her voice, too,” Jester says, and she leans over the tablet, tapping on the video attached to the article.

The photo comes to life, the gorgeous woman springing into motion. She’s speaking Xhorhassian; Beau immediately wishes she was better at the language. She catches a few of the words Zuala uses: _music; today; friends;_ and something that sounds like _together_ or _community._

And her laugh, oh, her laugh. Beau’s heart breaks, staring down at a woman who was, until not so very long ago, so vibrantly alive that it hurts. Beau never met Zuala, but she instantly loves her.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Jester asks, and Beau can only nod. “There’s lots of other broadcasts she did. She was a singer, too!”

The video ends and Beau breaks eye contact with the Zuala on the screen, looking up at Jester. “We can’t show Yasha,” she whispers.

“What?”

“We can’t show her,” Beau repeats, her voice getting a little stronger. “It would _destroy_ her.”

“I’d want to hear my wife’s voice again. If I had a wife,” Jester says.

They stare at each other over the tablet for a few beats.

“Let’s ask Fjord,” Jester says at last. “Maybe he’ll have a better idea.”

“Okay. But until then, we _can’t_ mention this to Yasha, okay?”

Jester nods.

Downstairs, the door opens, and Fjord calls, “We’re home!”

“Also, my dad’s coming to visit,” Beau says, and pats Jester on the shoulder.

“Wait, what?”

But Beau’s already halfway down the stairs. “Good talk!”

They lay in the low glow of the bedside lamp, Beau’s fingers tracing the wings on Yasha’s back. Yasha’s half-asleep, her eyes lidded, her thumb pressed against Beau’s tattoo. Yasha’s nightly dose of painkillers flows through her still-healing system, giving her one- or two-word responses a low, slurry quality.

After all they’ve been through, Beau sometimes still can’t believe it’s real, that she can lay next to Yasha and take in the sounds of Yasha’s breathing, the feel of Yasha’s skin. When she closes her eyes it’s far too easy to slide back to seeing Yasha’s broken body in the ICU, and she wakes, panicked, drowning in her need to reassure herself that things are getting back to normal. She counts Yasha’s breaths in the early morning hours, slow and easy next to her, and lets them weigh her down, until her heart syncs with Yasha’s and she can finally relax again.

“Yasha,” she says softly.

“Hmm.”

“How do you feel?”

“Sleepy.”

“Does anything hurt?”

“Hmm. No.”

“Do you feel… safe?”

Yasha blinks, and Beau drinks in her beautiful mismatched eyes. She loves Yasha so fiercely it almost hurts, a pure blade of emotion slipping between her ribs and twisting.

“Safe,” Yasha agrees sleepily.

“Do you need anything?”

Yasha’s thumb slowly drifts across Beau’s tattoo. “Just you.”

“Okay.” Beau leans down and kisses Yasha’s cheek. “Can we sleep now?”

“Mm-hmm.” Yasha sighs contentedly. “Beau?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay.”

“I will,” Beau says, and she watches as Yasha curls in towards her, eyes closing.

Beau turns off the lamp and lays awake. In Yasha’s slowing breathing she hears Zuala’s laughter.

It’s utterly ridiculous for Beau to feel like she’s in competition with a dead woman, and yet she can’t shake that idea from her head. Yasha can’t ever go back to Zuala, can’t even go back to where she and Zuala lived, now that it’s destroyed by the war. Which means Beau’s competing with memories, with flickers on a tablet screen, with a voice and a laugh preserved but no longer present-tense - and somehow she feels like she’s coming up short. She can't ever be Zuala, and that makes her feel inadequate.

Beau rolls over, facing Yasha. In the dim light of the night-darkened room, it’s almost impossible to see the bruises still healing around Yasha’s eyes. They’re lighter than the tattoo running down Yasha’s chin, the same one Zuala had. Beau reaches out and gently brushes Yasha’s chin with her thumb. Yasha opens her mouth slightly and shifts on the bed, reaching out for Beau. Her hand finds Beau’s arm and she settles.

_I’d want to hear my wife’s voice again._

* * *

_rage_

Yasha sits at the breakfast table, considering the oatmeal in front of her. She’s not really hungry, but Nila told her that healing her body is a combination of many different actions - and eating is one of them.

_Eating will help you remain strong while we work on regaining your physical abilities. It’s important to keep eating and sleeping, staying on a regular schedule, and taking time to enjoy things. Everything is important._

That seems like too much to remember - _everything_ _is important._ Yasha’s not dealing well with the “everything” in the world right now.

Her body aches, and her limbs feel too heavy. Food tastes strange. Her head is foggy and she feels like she’s forgetting things. Her “regular schedule” was abruptly turned upside down for physical therapy and doctors’ appointments; she can’t remember the last time she did something she’d qualify as “normal.”

She reaches for her spoon and takes another bite of oatmeal. Brown sugar and blueberries accompany the cereal into her mouth, and it almost - _almost -_ tastes right.

Her phone buzzes on the table. _“Call from - Moondrop & Fletchling Refugee Resettlement Agency,” _ the voice-over app announces.

Oh. Her job. She hasn’t necessarily _forgotten_ about it, but things have been a bit busy.

_“Call from - Moondrop & Fletchling Refugee Resettlement Agency.” _

And they knew what happened to her. Mr. Tealeaf came to see her after she got home from the hospital. He said it was okay that she couldn’t come to work for awhile, because the number of refugees coming in was slowing down.

_“Call from -”_

Yasha reaches out and answers. “Hello?”

“Hello, Yasha, it’s Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

“Good morning, Mr. Tealeaf.”

“How are you today?”

“I’m… I’m okay.”

“I’m glad to know you’re back at home, recovering with your family.”

_Family._ Yasha savors that word. She likes when people use it to describe Beau and Jester and Fjord. She wishes she was brave enough to say it more often.

“I don’t know how much you’re following the news lately,” Mr. Tealeaf goes on, “but some relief agencies are starting to go into the area of Xhorhas where you lived. We sponsored one of their trips. They were able to go in and look for… for effects of the people who lived there.”

Yasha carefully sets her spoon down on the table.

“There are only a few survivors from your village,” Mr. Tealeaf tells her. “We were interested in trying to find anything that might remind them of home and help them in their resettlement process. They were able to find some things that belonged to you, and to your wife.”

Yasha’s mind goes fuzzy.

“We have a box for you here at the office, if you’re interested.”

“Um… thank you,” Yasha says.

“Whenever you’re ready, it’ll be here. No rush.”

“Is there… are there photographs?” Yasha asks. She closes her eyes, imagining Zuala’s face. There’s no photograph that could ever do Zuala’s eyes justice, and Yasha now has absolutely no need for photos, but for some perverse reason she wants a photograph to show to others - _this is who she was._

“You know, I’m not sure what all’s in there. I can take a look if you’d like, or you can wait until you come to look through everything.”

“Uh, no, that’s okay. I’ll… I’ll wait.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Tealeaf repeats gently. “We all miss you around here, Yasha. Please come and see us any time.”

“Thank you,” Yasha says. “For… for all of it.”

They say goodbye. Yasha sets her phone down on the table and wraps her fingers around her spoon, thinking of everything that could be in the box. She can think of hundreds of things she misses from her home - boots, books, photographs, jewelry - and yet none of it would compare to finding Zuala, alive, in some sort of miracle, maybe forgotten under rubble.

Yasha thinks of it: Zuala, abandoned as Empire soldiers pulled Yasha away from her - _they thought she was dead -_ but getting up, running back into what was left of the village, hiding - _she would wait until it was safe and she was alone -_ trying to heal whatever wounds she had, going from house to house to steal whatever she needed, living alone in the dark and quiet, waiting for someone to come find her. It’s a hope beyond hope, a dream with no chance of ever coming true, but it brings tears to Yasha’s eyes.

_Why couldn’t we_ _both_ _have lived?_

She sobs over her oatmeal, her spoon clenched in her hand. Her chest hurts as tears stream down her face; her muscles tighten and she suddenly screams, a loud wail ripping out of her so fiercely and ferociously that she’s surprised it doesn’t physically tear her apart.

“Yasha?!”

Footsteps rush down the stairs towards her.

Yasha screams again, the horrifying finality of Zuala’s death settling into her bones. She shoves the table away from her, shoves it with all of her strength and hears it crash into the counter. Dishes clank and rattle and something falls to the floor. She flings her spoon away from her; it hits the tile and bounces.

Thusly unencumbered, she turns her hands on herself, slapping at her head, pulling at her hair, keening and rocking. Something’s started and she can’t get it to stop.

“Yasha,” Beau says, and hands come down on hers.

Yasha snarls at Beau, tries to push her away.

“Yasha, _stop,”_ Beau says firmly, and the hands reposition, pinning Yasha’s arms against her body. _“Stop_ hurting yourself.”

Beau squeezes Yasha tightly. Yasha thrashes away, kicking out, trying to stand. Her still-healing leg buckles and she goes to the floor. Again her inability to do even the smallest thing enrages her and she screams once more, pounding her fists into the tile. It hurts, but somehow it’s still not enough to fix whatever set her off.

“Yasha, _please,”_ Beau says. There’s shuffling and scuffling and then arms and legs wrap around Yasha’s body, pinning her own arms to her body and her legs to the floor.

The rage floods out of Yasha’s body and she feels suddenly empty. Blind, empty, a husk on the floor. Her limbs loosen and she sobs.

Beau rocks them back and forth on the floor until the kitchen is quiet; she releases one hand and brings it up to stroke Yasha’s hair. “What happened?” Beau asks softly.

Yasha hiccups and lets out a breath. “They… they found… some things. Of mine. And Zuala’s.”

“What? Who did?”

“The refugee agency.”

“Okay,” Beau says.

Yasha sags back against Beau, who immediately loosens her pinning limbs and readjusts to cradle Yasha. “I just… I started thinking about…”

_About home. About Zuala._ The words are on her lips but they won’t come out.

“About all of it,” Beau supplies.

Yasha nods.

“And it just got to be very real,” Beau goes on.

Yasha nods again.

“I’m sorry you were alone when all this happened.”

“You can’t be with me every minute of every day, Beau.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t feel bad about it.” Beau kisses her cheek.

“I’m tired of being like this,” Yasha says softly. “I want to be better.”

“You are a kickass woman,” Beau says. “You don’t need to be _better._ You just need to heal.”

“It’s taking an awfully long time.”

“Yash. I know you didn’t read your medical reports, but the rest of us did, and the doctors were surprised that you _lived,_ let alone that you’re now standing and walking with assistance and doing as much as you are. You’re a miracle. Over and over.”

_“Zjbrowja,”_ Yasha says. “Miracle.”

“Yeah, Keg hasn’t taught me that one yet,” Beau says. “We’re stuck on boring things like verbs. And also I’ve got most of the curse words mastered.”

Yasha smiles at that.

“Oh, and this one,” Beau says. _“Xlaj.”_

She kisses Yasha’s cheek. “Kiss.”

“That’s very good,” Yasha says, and her smile grows. “Your accent is perfect.”

They sit together, letting the stillness of the house twine around them. Eventually Beau says, “You don’t have to go get the things they have for you. Or if you do, you don’t have to look at them. I mean, not _look_ at them, but, you know, open the box.”

Yasha puts her head on Beau’s shoulder and listens to Beau breathe. She thinks of all the things that anchor her to their life in Nicodranas, the most important ones - her cane, her worry stones, her Braille reader, her favorite smooth cotton shirt - and wonders if the weight of them would mean anything to her in another place, another time. She wonders if any of them matter at all, or if things are just things.

She _wants_ that box -

\- only if it’s to see how full a box can be and yet still feel completely empty.

* * *

_visit_

Thoreau Lionett arrives in Nicodranas just as the streetlights flicker on. It’s raining and he’s somewhat crabby from the long journey. He’s not even entirely sure what he’s doing, visiting his daughter. Beau is a total enigma, and Thoreau’s never been good at puzzles or ciphers.

He turns onto the street where she lives, the houses sturdy single-family homes with flower beds and toys in the yards. The cars parked in the driveways and at the curbs are serviceable, if not new-ish. No one’s out, due to the weather, but it seems like a pleasant-enough place to live, with reputable-enough people. Hardly the den of iniquity Thoreau thought of when his daughter begrudgingly sent him her address.

The GPS announces that his destination is on his right, and Thoreau looks over to see a blue Victorian on the corner. It’s tall and rambling, but instead of looking imposing, it seems to be friendly. A pickup truck and a small red car sit in the driveway. The lights are on in the house and the warmth spills out onto the large porch and front yard; he can see flowers in painted window-boxes and some well-hewn furniture on the porch.

Thoreau parks the rental at the curb and gets out, looking up at the sapphire-colored house. _There’s still time to turn back,_ he thinks as rain mists his face and hair.

He keeps that thought in his head as he walks across the sidewalk and up the steps to the front door of the house. Lacy curtains in the windows pattern the light from inside and each step he takes rearranges the shadows across his feet and legs.

At the door there’s a welcome mat, patterned with brightly-colored doughnuts, one pink-and-blue circle making up the “o” in “welcome.” A beautiful wreath of tulips hangs from the dark blue door. The porch light is on, as though they were expecting him. Thoreau feels comforted, somehow. He reaches out and pushes the lighted doorbell.

Almost immediately there are footsteps, a little hesitant, coming from inside.

He hears his daughter’s voice: “Yasha, just hang on - I’ll get it!”

“I can get it,” a closer voice replies. “I’m right here.”

“Okay, but -”

The door opens and Thoreau looks up into the face of a very, very tall woman. She does not fit the description of either of Beauregard’s roommates, both of whom he’s met before.

“Hello?” she asks.

Thoreau just stares at her. Two different-colored eyes, a tattoo stripe running from lower lip to chin, dark hair fading to white at the tips, _very_ pale skin. She’s not looking at him but just… in his general direction, and he wonders if she’s… what? Drunk? On drugs?

“Hello?” she repeats, and Thoreau realizes he’s standing there with his mouth open, staring at her.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m Thoreau Lionett, Beauregard’s father. And you are…?”

“Dad!” Beau suddenly slides into the doorway next to the tall woman, putting her hand on the tall woman’s elbow. “Hi, come on in.”

Thoreau watches as Beau guides the woman out of the doorway. “Hello, Beauregard.”

He steps into the house; it’s warm and smells like cookies. “I don’t know if we’ve been introduced,” he says to the woman.

“This is Yasha,” Beau says. “Yasha, this is my dad.”

“Hi,” Yasha says, and she sticks her hand out.

He takes it and shakes it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Are you hungry, Dad?” Beau asks.

“I could eat.” Thoreau looks at Beau’s hand, still gently on Yasha’s elbow, and at the tall woman’s still-drifting eyes, and suddenly realizes two things:

_This woman is blind._

_My daughter loves this woman._

“Okay,” Beau says. “I’ll get you something. Yasha, why don’t you… show Dad into the living room?”

“I can do that. Um, if you’ll come this way…?”

Thoreau watches as Beau lets go of Yasha’s elbow, and Yasha puts out her hand, finding the wall. She orients herself with it and guides herself into the living room using the wall and the furniture. Thoreau notices she walks with a limp, and wears a heavy brace on her right leg.

He takes a seat on the couch and watches as Yasha settles into an armchair that seems to fit her like a hug. “Have you lived here long, Yasha?”

“A little more than three years,” she answers softly.

“Where did you live before that?”

She freezes. “I was… I came from… from Xhorhas.”

“Oh,” Thoreau says.

_This woman is blind. My daughter loves this woman. This woman is a refugee._

He finds his voice again. “It must have been very traumatic to come here by yourself. I’m glad you were able to find safety and security here.”

She bites her lip and looks down at the floor.

Thoreau looks around, trying to figure out what else to say. He finds nothing else to comment upon, and they sit awkwardly together in silence until Beau brings in a tray of crackers and cheese.

Later, as he’s getting ready to leave, he happens to see them together, caught in an intimate moment they’re not aware he’s observing. Yasha sits on a kitchen chair, her forehead furrowed in what seems like pain and anguish, digging her fingers into her braced leg. Beau stands before her, rubbing her shoulders, speaking softly. There’s nothing but care and concern on Beau’s face, and she’s so gentle that Thoreau wonders who this stranger could be.

He realizes in that split second that Beauregard has become a woman he does not know, and that saddens him.

He makes sure that before he leaves, he sets another date to come and see her and Yasha.

The rain feels refreshing on his face when he steps out into the blue night.

* * *

_bloom_

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Beau asks worriedly.

“Yes,” Yasha replies stubbornly. “Grog’s going to be here - he can help me if something goes wrong.”

“Uh - are you sure? I can stay if -”

“Beau,” Yasha says warningly.

“All right, all right,” Beau says, raising her hands in a peace-making gesture despite the fact Yasha can’t see her. “I just worry about you and Grog out here alone.”

“We’re not _alone._ There’s a whole bunch of people in the Center if we really need them. And Grog is a good person.”

As though summoned by his name, Grog appears at the passenger side door of Beau’s car, knocking almost timidly on the window. “Hi, Yasha,” he says, raising his voice to be heard.

Yasha opens the door. “Hi, Grog,” she says.

“Hi,” Beau says, waving.

“Hi,” Grog says. It’s always very clear his attention is only for Yasha. Beau both likes that - because Yasha deserves to have friends who care about her - and is irritated by it - because she dislikes feeling like a third wheel.

Grog leans into the car. “‘Kay, I’m gonna put your hand on my arm, and you just stand up when you’re ready.”

Yasha gets her walking cane ready and carefully swings her legs out of the car. She grips onto Grog’s arm and pulls herself up.

“That’s real good,” Grog says. “I got a nice chair set up in the garden for ya.”

“Bye, Beau,” Yasha says.

“Bye,” Beau answers. She leans over and hands Grog Yasha’s backpack, which he takes. “Have fun. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay.”

The door closes and they’re out in the fresh air. Yasha takes a few steps. Her leg has been feeling better, but today she’s anxious and out-of-sorts and it seems that she leans more heavily on Grog than usual. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, and Yasha likes that about him.

“Grog,” she says, the thought appearing out of nowhere, “what if you had a box of things you hadn’t seen in a long time, and someone offered to give it back to you? Would you want to see it?”

“Why does someone else have a box ‘a my stuff?”

“You had to leave a place you liked really suddenly, and you couldn’t take it with you. And you think the things might make you sad if you saw them again, because it would remind you of how you had to leave that place..”

“Oh.” Grog thinks about this. Yasha feels the pavement under their feet give way to the pebbled walk of the garden. “I guess… I guess I’d want it back, but I’d want Pike to sit with me and look at the stuff with me and remind me that even though I couldn’t be in that place anymore, I could be in other places, and she would be there with me.”

Once again Yasha marvels at how easy it seems for Grog to come up with an answer that completely makes sense. She knows that other people often shy away from dealing with Grog, because he’s “slow” (a word Yasha doesn’t like but has heard in reference to her friend), but Grog seems to see the world in simple, easy-to-understand pieces. He’s uncomplicated, and in a world where most things aren’t, Yasha treasures their time together.

In the garden Grog gets Yasha settled in a comfortable chair, one that feels suspiciously like the chairs Yasha remembers from the Storm Lord Center’s library. She wonders if Grog got permission to bring the chair out and thinks probably not, which amuses her.

“Yasha?”

“Hmm?”

“The box ‘a stuff you’re talkin’ about, that’s a real box, huh?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have it yet.”

“No.”

“An’ when you were askin’ _me_ about it, it was ‘cause you were tryin’ t’ see if _you_ should get the box back, right?”

“Yes.”

Grog gives a short _hmm_ and then gently touches Yasha’s hand. “I got a watering wand for ya today. There’s a button on the underside and ya just point it at the flowers an’ push it an’ the water comes out. I’ll move the chair when you’re done with this box.”

Yasha takes the hose and its attachments from him and leans forward, gauging the space between her body and the raised garden box before she starts to gently spray the water over the plants.

“You should get the box,” Grog says.

Yasha’s surprised by how emotional his voice sounds. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. An’ maybe… maybe ya bring me some stuff from Your-House an’ show it to me.”

Yasha smiles when Grog attempts to pronounce Xhorhas, she always does. “Okay. What do you think you’d like to see from Xhorhas?”

“What kinda food they got?”

With the sun overhead and the gentle mist of the water spray on Yasha’s face and Grog’s innocent but somehow introspective questions, the afternoon passes away quickly. When it’s finally time to walk back to the parking lot, the knot of anxiety and uncertainty under Yasha’s sternum dissolves, unwinding into strength that flows around her bones and holds her upright.

It’s only when she and Beau are in the car, talking about what Jester’s making for dinner, that Yasha realizes she talked about Xhorhas, about home, about Zuala, for three hours, and never once felt guilty or scared.

She really, _really_ likes that.

* * *

_reveal_

Mr. Tealeaf leaves the box on their front porch two days later. Yasha insists she be the one to go out to get it, and then asks to be left alone with it for a while. She hears the hesitancy in the room from Jester, Beau, and Fjord, made only louder when Fjord asks, “Are you sure? We could… just sit in the room with you.”

“I’d just like some space,” Yasha says, a little more firmly. She softens, though, and says, “When I’m ready to open it, you can come back.”

“You’re not going to open it?” Jester sounds confused.

“Not yet.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Just… sit with it. And maybe talk to Zuala.”

“Okay,” Beau says. “We’ll give you some time. Just know we’re here for you.”

“I do,” Yasha replies simply.

They leave her. Beau kisses her on the forehead as she goes out of the room.

“What if Zuala could talk to her?” Jester asks, nearly as soon as Beau’s closed the door to the front room.

“That’s not really a possible thing, Jes,” Fjord says.

“Well, she couldn’t talk _to_ her,” Jester says. “But we could let her hear Zuala’s voice again. I found a whole archive of Zuala’s radio programs, and some of her songs.”

“I think it’s a bad idea,” Beau says, crossing her arms as she leans against the wall near the stairs.

“I think it’s a _great_ idea,” Jester says.

They both look at Fjord.

“Hell, no. I’m not going to be the deciding vote on this,” Fjord says. “And neither of you should be, either. You should give her the choice.”

Beau sighs. She feels… antsy.

She ends up out on the back patio, headphones on, listening to the playlist of Zuala’s songs Jester made. Zuala’s voice is sweet and haunting and Beau feels almost _too much_ when she listens for too long, the same way she feels when she and Yasha lay in bed together and she can just look into Yasha’s eyes and touch Yasha’s skin and know there’s no other place she wants to be. It’s love, but it’s love that burns like the slice of a razor blade - a hurt so sudden and sharp that at first it doesn’t register, a fragile forbidden thing.

Keg’s patient Xhorhassian lessons are paying off, though, as Beau understands every fourth or fifth word in the songs, enough to pick up the general idea. Her favorite of Zuala’s songs is _Something Something Beautiful Home Tree,_ which Beau’s sure is a title that makes more sense in the original language. She’s found herself humming the melody a lot lately, and singing the little phrases she knows - _tell me na-na something you like la-la-la at home with me._

Beau hears the back door open and she sits up, taking off her headphones. “Yash? What are you doing?”

“I’m ready,” Yasha says. “And I want to be with you.”

They take the box up to their bedroom and set it on the bed, sitting on either side of it. Yasha takes a deep breath and removes the lid.

“How do you want to do this?” Beau asks.

“I want to touch things, and then if it’s something I can’t figure out, you can tell me,” Yasha answers.

“Okay.”

Yasha takes another deep breath and carefully reaches into the box. She lets her fingers drift across the contents, taking in the general shape and placement of the objects within. Her fingers immediately become soft with… dust? Grit? Dirt?

She brings them to her nose and smells them. Does the dirt smell like Xhorhas, or is she just projecting?

Back in the box. Her hands run across a small tin box. When she picks it up and gives it a gentle shake, it rattles. She carefully runs her fingers around the top and finds the latch closing it; she releases it and lifts the lid. Inside the box, her fingers touch something cool and metallic.

Yasha gently brushes her fingertips against the objects. She knows, almost without further deep investigation, exactly what they are. _“B’zal trivezh,”_ she tells Beau, tipping the box forward. “Wedding rings.”

_What do we need rings for?_

_Because we’re married, dummy._

_But we can’t wear these._

_We can wear rings. We don’t have to tell anyone what they mean._ _We_ _know, and that’s good enough._

“These are beautiful,” Beau says, and Yasha jerks back to the room, snapped out of her memory. “The pattern looks like leaves.”

“One of Zuala’s friends made them. He was a very talented jeweler.” Yasha wants to slip her ring on immediately; the metal seems to ache against her fingers.

“Did you have these on when you were taken from Xhorhas?” Beau asks.

Yasha shakes her head. “They took them from us when we were in prison. Mr. Tealeaf’s group must have found what was left of the prison.”

She puts the tin on her knee and reaches into the cardboard box again. Something smooth and round meets her fingers, and she draws it out, flipping it over. Raised carvings of flowers and leaves dance under her fingertips, and her insides contract, hard.

“It’s blue,” Beau says, taking in the round, donut-shaped object, which looks like a pendant of some sort.

“They found her body, then,” Yasha says, somewhat distantly. “Someone did. This was… she wore this every day. Never took it off.”

Her wrists ache now, and her eyes hurt, and she doesn’t want to go any further into the box. She bows her head.

“Yasha, we can do more of this later,” Beau says. “We can take a break if you want.”

“I just… I just want…” Yasha feels tears burn in her eyes. “I want _her_ to be here, not all this.”

“I know,” Beau says softly. “Can I hold you?”

Yasha nods, and the bed shifts as Beau moves the box and repositions herself, wrapping her arms around Yasha. Yasha leans in, putting her head against Beau’s chest, letting the tears roll down her face.

Beau’s never felt so helpless. She has no idea what to say, what to do, and she feels that inadequacy in the air around them. “If you could hear Zuala talk again, would you want to? Would you want to hear her voice again?”

Immediately she feels terrible. She wasn’t planning on asking Yasha point-blank; she and Jester were supposed to bring it up gently, discuss it with Yasha later.

“Yes,” Yasha says, the word almost a sob. “Yes. It would be more than just objects… it would be _her.”_

Beau shifts again and takes her phone out of her pocket. “Okay,” she says.

“What are you doing?”

“Just… listen,” Beau says. She brings up the song she knows only as _Something Something Beautiful Home Tree,_ and presses “play.”

Yasha closes her eyes. She recognizes the music immediately. _Meet Me in Our Beautiful Garden._ It was a song Zuala wrote for her. Her thumb rubs over the pendant, her other hand reaching out to take Beau’s wrist, her usual soothing ritual.

_Why did you write me a song?_

_Have you looked at yourself? You’re worth a hundred songs._

_I am not._

_Okay, well, you’re worth at least one. So I made sure it was a really,_ _really_ _good one._

Yasha finds herself singing, her voice weaving with Zuala’s. _“You are the storm I’m waiting for, I can see the clouds in your eyes / So let loose the downpour, roll the thunder / Hold my hand and light up the sky.”_

The sudden peace she felt in the garden steals back over her. “Thank you,” she whispers to Beau.

“What?”

“I never thought I’d hear this song again.” Yasha snuggles into Beau, breathing in Beau’s familiar scent, loving the feeling of her thumb over Beau’s tattoo.

“Do you want to look at what else is in the box?”

“No. Not… right now. Can we just stay here together?”

Beau feels her throat get tight. She kisses the top of Yasha’s head. “We can stay here together as long as you want.”

The music spools around them, and nothing feels off-kilter.

* * *

_contents_

A tin box containing two wedding rings. A blue jade pendant. A carefully folded shawl. Two books, both singed. A wallet. A photo album with a cracked vinyl cover. Four seed packets, the little envelopes bearing notes in a spidery, fine hand. A small ceramic sculpture of a woman’s face.

  
It’s all that remains, and somehow it’s completely enough.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as memorysdaughter.


End file.
